A Hard Sacrifice
by piperholmes
Summary: Series 2 AU: Despite Sybil & Tom's best efforts, following their secret marriage, Sybil falls pregnant towards the beginning of 1918. Tom wants to immediately tell her family and claim the baby and her as his, but Sybil fights him, knowing they don't have enough money, and that if Tom were to lose his employ they would have no where to go. But how long can she hide her pregnancy?
1. March 1918

**A Hard Sacrifice**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: (This is a long one) Several months ago, magfreak posted a drabble on Tumblr about Tom and Sybil secretly marrying, which got me thinking about what if they did secretly marrying during the War and Sybil fell pregnant. As a bit of a lark I made a few photos showing Sybil pregnant throughout series 2. The reaction was overwhelmingly supportive and encouraging and so I wrote a few drabbles based off that premise. And the response was even more amazing. And thus it has now turned into an actual story. I owe a huge thank you to so many people, it's been a collaborative process, though I'm not sure they realized that. Angiemagz made some awesome gifs on Tumblr which led to a great deal of the drabbles being written. Scarletcourt's absolutely phenomenal attention to detail provided me the framework and timeline so I could write this. Magfreak for the inspiration. A special thanks to Repmet, who beta'd this for me (and dealt with my mild panic as I worked to make this good enough for you guys)! **_**This is rated a strong T, and will most likely be upped to M at some point.**_

**This story is dedicated to the S/T fandom. You inspire me to create, for which I am truly grateful, but even more than that you are some awesome people who I am thrilled and delighted to call my friends! Enjoy! **

* * *

_November 1918_

_It was too soon._

_That's all that went through his head, a calm thought, just moments before panic gripped him, driving out all reasonable thought._

"_Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes huffed. "Are you listening to me? Go and fetch the doctor. Now!"_

_It made no sense. Her words had meaning, meaning he understood, but the implications ran too deep, choking out his ability to respond._

_Without thought, without preamble, he ran, dashing up the stairs that were forbidden him._

"_Mr. Branson! Where do you think you're going?" the housekeeper shouted, surprised by his actions._

_He paid no mind as he continued his flight, up higher and higher, continuing on up the grand staircase, ignoring the gasps of the servants as they bustled about their work. He knew where she was, where to find her._

_Without hesitation he ran down the hall leading to her bedroom, not stopping until he found himself outside her door, face to face with her father._

"_Branson!" Lord Grantham snapped. "What the devil are you doing up here?"_

_Tom's already frantic heart seemed to want to beat out of his chest, but fear and love were powerful motivators and a defiant mask slipped into place as he ignored his Lordship and pushed his way into her room._

"_Branson?" he heard Lady Edith cry, her shock reflected on the face of her mother, Lady Grantham, though a bit less so on Lady Mary's. But Tom had no patience with any of them, his eyes immediately falling to the figure on the bed._

"_Tom," she sobbed, all inhibitions lost. "It's too early...the baby…"_

_He fell to his knees beside her bed; his large hand engulfing hers as the fingers of his other hand tenderly smoothed her hair._

"_Shh," he soothed gently, "I'm here."_

_He heard movement behind him, heard the silent judgment and recrimination. Slowly he turned his face to Lord Grantham's, saw the lowered brows of uncertainty just moments before the older man's wrinkled skin smoothed as realization dawned._

"_No," Robert whispered. "Dear God, no."_

_Tom had no hope to give the man, merely answering with a hard, unflinching stare, confirming the Earl's suspicions. _

_Unable, or perhaps simply unwilling, to deal with the repercussions, Tom turned from him, once again focusing on his wife, her miserable, sad expression enough to break his heart._

_Their whole world was about to come crashing down on top of their heads._

"_Oh Tom," she moaned. _

* * *

March 1918

"Oh Tom," she moaned as he held her pinned against the wall with his body, moving in and out of her quickly. Her hand cradling his head, her fingers stretching and clenching, scraping through his fair hair, her other hand frantically clutching the back of his uniform, bunching the starched material tightly.

His head lowered to hers, his lips capturing and scraping, as he shifted her a little higher, the skirt of her nurses uniformed gathered about her waist, her legs wrapped tightly around him.

She broke the sloppy kiss, her head falling back, a hiss escaping as he plunged into her again, the force pushing her firmly against the wall.

Tom whimpered, his body longing for release. It had been a month since they had managed a moment to be together like this, a month since the sweet ecstasy of her body linked with his. It wasn't the slow, soft love-making he preferred, but hidden in a linen closet of Downton Abbey, quietly and desperately driving each other to completion, was just as thrilling. He wasn't often allowed in the house, tonight having been invited—along with the rest of the staff—to watch the show the Crawley sisters were putting on for the convalescing soldiers, affording him the opportunity to enter the grand upstairs, and he'd excitedly sought for some glimpse of his wife.

He'd managed only a small yelp as two hands had grabbed him, pulling him into the closet, plunging him into a world of darkness and sensations. He knew her by her smell, her touch, her kiss, and eagerly he'd responded.

"We have to hurry, the concert is going to start soon," she'd whispered harshly, as she'd pulled at the belt on his uniform.

"Yes m'lady," he'd answered, deftly sweeping her up against the wall, stepping between her legs, each trying to smother the contented laughter with kisses, shifting clothing, and absolving the pain of a too long absence.

He felt it now; building, gathering.

"Sybil," he panted, his thrusts growing erratic. Her legs tightened around the back of his thighs, refusing to allow him to pull away.

"Not yet," she pleaded huskily. "Almost there."

She buried her face in his neck, her breath hot on his skin, her hips grinding and driving against him.

"Sybil," he tried again, warning her. He had to pull out, his body moving beyond his control.

"Please," she begged. "please...so close." Her arms held him against her, tightly pressed, her heart pounding against his chest.

Tom's hand moved between them, his fingers seeking her intimately, massaging frantically, pushing her to her release, knowing his was just moments away, thrusting as hard as he dared.

"Yes," she whispered, her breathing growing fractured. "Oh Tom, yes."

He heard a final gasp before her body went rigid, arching against him, grasping and pulling, her hold on him almost painful. His control slipped completely away, his own body tightening, his muscles stiffening as waves of pleasure washed over him, through him, and with a final thrust he released into her, unable to suppress a quiet groan of satisfaction.

He felt her sag against him, her legs slowly lowering to the floor, grateful to her as his arms weakened. They were silent, the sound of their harsh breathing filling their ears.

Tom moved his forehead to rest against hers, still keeping her cocooned with his body, even as he slipped from hers.

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he chanted, his eyes tightly closed, even though the darkness made it nearly impossible to make out features. He simply couldn't stomach the possibility of seeing her disappointment. "I'm so sorry. I can't believe I was so selfish-"

Sybil's hands immediately moved to cup his face, warm against his cheeks. She shushed him, moving her lips to graze gently against his, barely there kisses enough to still his words.

"It's alright," she breathed, her chest rising high and fast as she tried to calm her still racing heart. "It's my fault. I was the selfish one-"

"Sybil," he interrupted, his tone communicated his self recrimination.

"Hush," she commanded, a bit more harshly than she intended, and softly repeated, "hush."

Her thumb stroked the pink of his lips.

"Let's not ruin this moment together by worrying."

"But if there's a child-"

"Then we'll handle it," she answered. "This isn't the first time we've been here. We always knew it would be a risk. Our only sure option would be to abstain and we agreed that neither of us wanted that. Besides, I think we should be alright."

Tom nodded, hoping she was right.

Sybil wrapped her arms around him suddenly, and Tom sensed a desperation to her hold that she rarely allowed him to feel.

He hugged her close, his hands moving from where they held her hips, her skirt falling back into place as he wound his arms about her.

"I love you so much," she said, her lips close to his ear.

"And I you," he answered. He knew he couldn't pretend, like they did, he couldn't ignore what was there, and knew she was growing to be like him, merely needed help and promptings at time. "Still no word about Mr. Matthew?"

Her fingers dug into him as she shook her head.

He gave no empty promises, both knowing that war had a habit of making liars out of even the best of them, he instead just held her as long as he could, knowing soon their absence would begin to draw attention and forced himself to step away, reaching for his handkerchief. Her hand swatted his out of the way as she took the small piece of material out of his pocket, before wiping them both clean.

In silence they righted their clothes, helping ensure the other was properly buttoned and tucked in, both wishing it didn't have to be like this, so secret, so worried, so suppressed. Tom reached out to her, instinctively knowing, and grasping her hand in his, their fingers entwining and gripping. By mutual agreement they came together, their lips embracing one last time in a tender, hopeful kiss.

Whispered commitments of love were shared before she slipped from his arms, sneaking out the door through a small crack of light.

After nearly 18 months of marriage, of hiding and keeping sacred their promise to each other, no discussion or planning was needed. They were adept at finding these stolen moments. So he waited, listening for any sound, before finally making his own escape.

He blinked several times, acclimating his eyes to the light, as he strolled towards where everyone was gathering. Excited chatter filled the air, servants, soldiers, and Crawleys alike doing their best to forget the war and enjoy an evening of music and entertainment. Tom slid into the back of the room, immediately finding her, watching as she helped a soldier take his seat.

As others milled about, his mind went back to what had happened, memories of her body and their time together tugged at the corner of his lips. It's true; they had made a few mistakes in the past. Preventatives weren't the easiest to come by, Sybil snagging one from the army surplus when the opportunity allowed. But she admitted to him she didn't like doing that, so it was up to him to find them, sometimes making a trade with a soldier in the village, but it wasn't often that happened. Sybil told him when they could be together, explaining to him about a woman's body, but he lacked her medical training, his cheeks pinking at her explanation, leading him to just nod and mentally vow to simply do as she said.

He wanted a family with her, more than anything, but their decision to elope in secret meant certain sacrifices had to be made. A child was too big a risk right now.

He watched proudly as Sybil shook her head at the offered chair, choosing instead to walk back to where the staff and nurses stood. Her eyes met his for a moment, a small smile shared, before she took up her position to watch the show. Tom loved watching her. He loved how caught up she got in every performance and the way her head would tilt as she listened or watched. He remembered the day they married, as she listened to the vows he made to her, that same tilt, that same sweet smile.

He remembered too the first time he'd spoken to her, really spoken to her, his heart beating fast, his words playing over and over in his mind, rehearsing what he'd say, hoping his instincts about her weren't wrong, that she wouldn't chastise him for his impertinence and familiarity. He'd waited until they'd left the village before he'd handed her the pamphlets, before he dared opening his mouth and speaking his mind, on the road to Ripon, that day she'd met with Madam Swan about her infamous "new frock." She admitted to him one night as they lay in bed, tightly wound together, that it had been their conversation in the car that had given her the last boost of confidence she needed to defy her mother and convention, and order the harem pants.

And there she stood, Lady Sybil Branson, who always fought to get what she wanted, for what she believed in. His heart sank as he thought about the day when she would have to fight for him, for them. But fight they would.

Tom was pulled from his revelry, by movement at the door, Lady Mary's singing abruptly stopping, followed soon by Lady Edith's fingers pausing their dance across the keys of the piano.

Silence stretched as Tom watched Mr. Matthew and William step fully into the room. He heard a small gasp and knew, knew his wife had quietly expressed her joy and delight. They were all so controlled, and at times so foreign to him. He wanted to swing her up, hear her laughter ring out as she smiled and rejoiced in her cousin's return. It was not the way of the English aristocracy, and he was learning that marriage, especially theirs, was compromise, forgiveness and understanding.

As Matthew and Mary began singing, the entirety of the room joining in, he noticed her back moving closer, in nearly imperceptible increments. He could hear her raspy voice join in the chorus of the song and felt the small nudge as the little finger of her hand wound tightly around his, hidden between them.

_A garden of Eden just made for two_

_With nothing to mar our joy_

_I would say such wonderful things to you_

_There would be such wonderful things to do_

_If you were the only girl in the world_

_and I were the only boy._

* * *

**Thank you for reading!**

**My goal is to update every Sunday.**

**And please allow me to say, one more time, thank you to everyone on Tumblr for the support. The messages and suggestions and ideas and general support has been truly overwhelming. We've been through a lot in the last year but that hasn't destroyed us, rather proved the cliché true: what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I really want to list everyone who has been so encouraging but I'm terrified I'll miss someone, so I hope you can all accept this story as my thanks!**

**See you next Sunday (with a much shorter Author's Note I promise)!**

_**Coming Next Week:**_

_Sybil's hand slid into his as his arm wrapped around her. They maintained the proper distance, their frame strong, faces neutral, gazes diverted. But still she couldn't help but feel that they all saw, that somehow they could tell. The warmth of his hand on her back seeped through the gauzy material of her dress, sending a shiver down her spine. The skin of her cheeks tingled and she knew they were betraying her, coloring her awareness of him._

_The music started, and she felt him hesitate, the fingers of the hand that held hers tightened slightly. Sybil risked a glance, saw the uncertainty in his eyes._

"_Just as we practiced," she whispered, her own fingers subtly tapping the beat for him._

_She felt him relax some, felt a pressure as he carefully pushed her back, leading her into the first step as they began to dance._


	2. April 1918 Part 1

**A Hard Sacrifice**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Wow! Thank you so much for the amazing response, both here and on Tumblr! I am completely floored. Thank you for reading, and an extra big thank you to those who reviewed! I hope this story continues to be something people enjoy!**

**I am trying to stick to show canon as much as possible, but there are aspects of Series 2 timeline that don't make sense (again, a big thanks to scarletcourt for all her work on that!) so some dates will be changed, along with a few plot points. But when I make a change I'll let you know. I don't expect **_**too**_** many but this is an AU so it's ok (even perhaps a little expected) that I change more than just Tom and Sybil's story ^_^**

**And finally, a GINORMOUS thank you to Repmet for her beta-ing and willingness to listen to me ramble on and her spot on advice!**

_April 1918_

"Nurse Crawley."

Sybil turned at the call of her name, an open, easy smile on her face as she stepped closer to the young soldier.

"Yes Lt. Griggs?"

"Terribly sorry to bother you, but it seems my crutches have been moved out of my reach."

The man was not much older than Sybil, around 23, if she remembered correctly. His light brown curly hair, wide smile, and slightly blushing cheeks made him appear much younger. It was difficult to picture this affable young man shooting and screaming in the battlefield. But of course he had. They all had. The bandage and splint wrapped tightly around his lower right leg was testament to that. They had feared he would lose it, but it appeared to be healing, and they were taking every precaution to avoid the onset of an infection.

"Not a bother at all," Sybil assured him as she moved to his cot and around to where his crutches leaned against the wall.

She split her time between the hospital and Downton. When her home had been converted into a convalescent hospital it seemed her family had assumed she would give up her place on the hospital staff, choosing to work full time at Downton. For Sybil it had never even occurred to her. How could she give up something she had fought so hard for? Something that gave her a sense of purpose?

Wordlessly she held the crutches out to him, watching as he awkwardly pulled himself up. Neither commented on the strain it clearly put on his body, Sybil's gaze lingering on the floor, allowing him his dignity.

Finally, his breathing labored from the exertion, he found himself upright, his weight heavily held by the wooden crutches.

"Don't over do it," Sybil warned, her hands hovering about his body as a mother might a newly walking child.

Griggs laughed. "I suppose I never expected a walk to the door to be 'over doing it.'"

Sybil gave a small, sad smile. "War does seem to make everything topsy turvy, doesn't it?"

The young lieutenant didn't answer, he didn't have to. It was enough to glance about the once elegant drawing room, taking in the rows and rows of cots, servicemen far from home suffering from a range of maladies, their memories more cruel and cold as they thank the Lord that they were injured because it meant they weren't dead nor living in the hell of the battlefield to know the world would never be as it once was.

They walked slowly, each step focused on intently, which is why it surprised Sybil when he spoke again.

"You don't remember me do you?"

Her head whipped up, confusion evident on her face.

Griggs stopped his shuffling just as they stepped out into the pale sunlight on the Spring day, turning to look at her directly.

His easy, open smile was back.

"I'm sorry-" Sybil began slowly, her eyes scrunching up, the skin wrinkling as she stared at him, doing her best to recall some previous encounter.

"Quite alright," he assured her. "We've only met once, several years ago, before the war."

Sybil shook her head slightly, trying to place him. "During my debut season?"

His eyebrows went up in a look of mild surprise. "Yes, do you remember?"

Sybil felt her cheeks grow warm, feeling as if her answer was going to let him down in someway, but she couldn't pretend. "So sorry, but no, I just assumed it had to have been in London since that is the only place I've been where I met a number of young men."

She saw a flash of disappointment, or at least she thought she did, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.

"No," he agreed quietly. "Well, as I said, quite alright. It was a brief encounter, at Penelope Harpershine's ball. Lord Merton's son, Larry, introduced us."

Sybil thought back to all those years ago, to the feeling of juvenile excitement and the thrill of anticipation. She thought of all the smiling young men...

"Jerrod Griggs! You're Lord Stanthorpe's son!" she cried, the memory finding hold. "I remember now because when Larry made the introductions you joked that I should call you Jare the Spare."

She had laughed at such a silly comment, remembered now how his eyes had twinkled, and she had thought him quite handsome. She remembered too how she had hoped he would ask her to dance, but he never did.

A bit of the light dimmed behind his eyes, his smile growing forced.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Quite a ridiculous man I am I suppose, though not the spare anymore."

Sybil's heart sank at his words. She'd met his older brother as well, his name escaping her, but she did remember the same easy smile, the same happy demeanor.

"I'm so sorry," she said, wishing the words still had meaning.

He nodded. "I've thought about that night often, thought about how I wished I'd had the courage to ask you to dance."

Sybil's breath caught at his confession.

"Seems so silly now, to think about how nervous I was then to ask you," he laughed sadly, his eyes falling to his leg. "Now I'll never get that dance."

Sybil's lips pressed together, unable to prevent her feelings from showing. It was true, he'd never dance again. Even if his leg healed totally, the damage to the bone meant he'd always walk with a noticeable limp. But she heard what he couldn't bring himself to ask.

"You mustn't think like that," she admonished gently. "You still have a lot of life ahead of you and there are plenty of women who would be proud to love a hero."

The wounded warrior brought his deep brown eyes up to hers. "I regret never asking you to dance."

Sybil felt a pain move through her. "I would have said yes. I would say yes now, only…"

"Someone else already has?" he supplied when she hesitated.

Sybil allowed her silence to answer for her. A moment of panic came: what if he spoke to Edith, or the other officers, what if word got back to her family? Gossip ran rampant among the soldiers and staff. But those thoughts were fleeting, Sybil berating herself her paranoia.

"Well, whomever he is, I hope he realizes how lucky he is," Griggs smiled at her, then turning to gaze out across the vast expanse of the beautiful greenery of the estate, he quietly added. "And I hope he survives this war."

* * *

Sybil listened intently, her excuse ready in case she was caught, as she peeked around the corner. Her heart pounded in her chest as she forced herself to keep her breathing calm and quiet. She had been pleased when her parents had agreed to turn Downton into a convalescent home, but that had made sneaking about all that more difficult. The house seemed so silent and still at night, which always made Sybil feel uneasy. Even as a child she didn't like roaming the halls at night, preferring the safety of her room and bed. Sybil always had a wild imagination, and Mary could tell some of the most grueling tales of ghosts haunting the halls of old manor homes. It wasn't hard for her mind to turn every creak of the house into the moan of some wronged apparition.

Hearing a sound, Sybil ducked into a nook, hoping her dressing gown kept her hidden in the darkness. Soft voices danced about, a feminine giggle flitted through the air followed by a deeper chuckle, making it clear Sybil wasn't the only woman breaking the rules tonight. Soon the voices faded, and Sybil again began her progression through the big house and out to the chauffeur's cottage.

As she made contact with the cold night air she was grateful for the pair of old half boots she had saved from before the war. She kept them hidden in her room, so no one would find them and question why they were so muddy. She had made the mistake early in their marriage of wearing her normal house shoes, and found herself weaving a fantastic tale for Anna the next morning of hearing what she thought was a wounded animal outside her window and going to investigate only to find it was a scared kitchen cat that had run off as soon as she approached. The housemaid had accepted the excuse but Sybil had received a bit of a dressing down from her mother over the dangers of going out at all hours of the night by herself.

Without a sound Sybil slipped into the small dark cottage that Tom was lucky enough to not have to share since Pratt lived in the village with his mother. They had no routine, no set nights they spent together, merely, they relied on the opportunities afforded, so Sybil didn't expect him to be waiting up, rather she assumed he'd be in bed already.

The one rule they did have was that she must always wake him up, the same for rule applied when he managed to steal into her room.

Tonight however, she found him sitting in bed, a small candle burning as he read through the newspaper.

He glanced up at her, a smile readily appearing as she stepped further into his bedroom.

"Haven't you read that one already?" she asked, moving to slide under the blanket and close against his body.

Tom tossed the paper aside, not willing to waste this time together. "I have. But if I'm ever going to work for a paper I'm going to have to write like journalist. I need to know how they say things, how they present things, how they...I don't know, I need to sound like I know what they know."

Sybil's fingers played with his round chin, stroking and teasing as she listened to him. "You do know things, Tom."

He let out a breath. "Not enough."

He didn't wait for a response as he wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in. "I'm glad you're here my darling."

Sybil pressed her lips to the underside of his chin, then placed small kisses along his jaw, before bring her head to rest against his shoulder.

"Rough day?" he pressed, sensing her withdrawal.

Sybil sighed, her thoughts plaguing her with Lt. Grigg's face, his sad eyes, and his poignant words.

"I'm glad you're not going to war," she said without preamble, almost defiantly she added, "and I don't care if that makes me unpatriotic or selfish or...a coward."

She felt him stiffen at her words, prompting her to sit up, to look into his eyes, his face shadowed in the meek light. Despite the embarrassment she felt at her outburst she refused to look away, even as he frowned at her.

"What's brought this on?"

Sybil felt her control slip, felt safe enough to finally feel. She had gone through the day performing her duties, smiling at the soldiers. She had dressed for dinner, kept her breathing even as she swallowed down the fine cuisine they enjoyed even as boys died in trenches. She had participated in the light conversations, kept her face neutral as her mother droned on about how inconvenient it was to not get to use the library to write correspondents. Even in the seclusion of her own room she kept her lips pressed together, because pressure kept one from bleeding out.

But here, in his bed, with him, she didn't have to pretend.

Her eyes closed, small gasps escaping, tears coming easily and rapidly as her face crumpled.

A sob wrenched from her body before she blindly reached for him. Deftly he bundled her up, pulling her into his lap, cradling her tight as she cried against his shoulder. She had never cried like this before, and never in front of someone. Mary and Edith had always teased her for her tears, but Sybil had never minded. She didn't see tears as the weakness they did. But as she'd seen more and more gruesome and terrifying images of war she'd believed herself growing hard to it, moving from a lady playing nurse to _being_ a nurse.

But she was also a wife.

Her body shook with the effort to rid itself of the strength of these emotions, her face growing wet and sticky and hot, fusing to the skin of his neck.

As she watched Griggs struggle to accept his new role in life, the loss of his brother, the loss of his youth, his leg, his hopes for the future, she feared she had become overwhelmed with the idea of life without Tom. Each soldier that had died had a family, perhaps a wife or sweetheart, dreams for a future. It all felt so useless, so pointless-and Sybil was no stranger to those feelings.

She realized he was speaking to her, soft words of love and comfort, and slowly she regained her composure.

"I love you," she mumbled, still buried in him, sniffling loudly. "I'm glad we didn't wait…I know it's not...it's not what we'd hoped or long for, but it's enough to be with you like this….that you...you asked me to dance."

She felt the fingers running through her hair still.

"Love?" The confusion in his voice brought a small smile to her lips.

Sybil just shook her head against him.

He held her a moment longer before untangling them to grab a small towel, dampening it with the now cold water that sat on his table, and tenderly wiping her face clean.

"I don't know what else to do," he admitted quietly, once he'd erased the evidence of her break down. "Are you...do you feel better now? Do you want to talk about it?"

Sybil again shook her head, her love for him filling the emptiness inside her. "No," she whispered, her throat raw. "I don't want to talk."

Slowly and deliberately she moved to straddle his lap, her fingers and lips caressing every inch of him as she worked to peel his shirt off, before her lips hovered over his.

"I want to show you."

_December 1914_

"_You what?" Tom nearly squeaked._

"_I want to show you," Sybil repeated patiently._

"_Really m'lady, I don't think-"_

"_That's fine," Sybil interrupted. "Don't think, just do what I tell you, and can we at least drop the title while I'm here? Call me m'lady or Lady Sybil everywhere else, but here in the garage can't you just call me Sybil as if we are friends?"_

_Tom rolled his eyes. The problem wasn't calling her Sybil, the problem was he quite enjoyed calling her Sybil. _

_He sighed heavily. "_Sybil_," he began, emphasizing her name. "You really don't have to do this. I doubt I'll even attend."_

"_Not attend?" Sybil cried. "Why ever not? It's always such fun, the servants say so every year."_

_Tom had to press his lips together, force himself to remember that years of privilege weren't easily changed, though he did admire her efforts._

"_I'm sure they do," he added dryly, not missing the way her eyes closed slightly, as if she sensed she'd said something wrong, but not yet willing to ask what it was._

"_Did you not attend last year? You did work here then," she pointed out, her hands going to her hips._

"_I was...under the weather," he said, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes growing wide as if to emphasize his point._

_Sybil took in his rigid posture, the resistance in his eyes._

"_You faked being sick!" she accused, merriment invading her tone. "You were too afraid to dance so you actually pretended to be sick!"_

_Tom scowled at her. "No. I had a nasty cold!"_

_Sybil's teasing grew into laughter. _

"_I'm not afraid to dance," he snapped. "It's as I told you, I don't know how."_

_Sybil swallowed her snickers, forcing her face to grow sympathetic. "Well it's as I said; I'll show you."_

_Tom hesitated. _

"_Oh please say yes," she pressed. "Otherwise I'll spend all night dancing with Carson or William. Poor William always steps on my toes. Besides with the war on who knows if we'll have the ball next year. I'm afraid it seems this conflict might stretch on a bit longer than expected. Everyone was supposed to be home by Christmas, and now we're headed into the new year."_

_With a shrug of surrender Tom tossed the oil covered rag he'd been using to clean the car onto the floor and reached for his driving gloves. "Fine. You can _try_ and show me. But if, as I suspect, I'm total rubbish then you have to help me convince everyone that I'm too sick to attend again this year."_

"_Agreed," Sybil said, her face beaming. "Now, give me your arms."_

_Tom frowned. "You want to do it now?"_

_"We've only three days until the ball," she answered, shaking her head kindly, as if dealing with a naive temperamental child. "Poor Branson, so afraid of a little dancing."_

_His Lady was teasing him, challenging him, daring him._

_Raising his left eyebrow, his lips pursed, he accepted. _

_"My hands are filthy. I'll leave my gloves on," he offered by way of acquiesce._

_Neither commented on the awkward moment, as he struggled to place his hand on her back, Sybil having to tell him his hand was meant to rest against her upper back, not her lower. Both bore pink cheeks as his hand slid up the slight curve of her body._

_Taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, Sybil transformed into a formidable teacher. "Right, now your feet."_

_For the next hour she taught him the basic steps of three dances, her favorite, as she told him brightly, being the waltz._

_"It used to be considered so immoral and risqué," she explained, her voice growing soft. "Because the man held the woman so closely."_

_Tom offered a noncommittal sound, too busy focusing his energy on the steps. He feared he'd wind up giving William a run for his money, having lost count the number of times he'd stepped forward when he was suppose to step back, or had overestimated the size of her step, and waltzed right onto her foot._

_He was so tense and anxious, trying to remember it all, he wondered how anyone found any enjoyment out of the exercise. Sybil was a hard task master, making him try again and again, but by the end of it he felt at least a little less silly, and even a little excited when he managed to get through an entire pass around the room without messing up too badly, earning him a full, toothy grin from Sybil._

_"Well done Branson," she praised him, stepping away, sending a shiver through him as cool air replaced the warmth of her body. "I do believe you'll pass even Granny's nitpicking."_

_Tom suppressed a shudder at the idea of holding the Dowager as he had Sybil, but wisely chose not to comment, rather he teased, "So I'm to call you Sybil, but you call me Branson?"_

_Sybil's face flashed a moment of surprise, her normal wit and confidence seemed to fail her. "I...of course not...I just…"_

_Then he realized._

_He realized what she wasn't saying, what she _couldn't _say._

"_You don't know my first name." _

_He hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, watching as she winced, but he hadn't been prepared for the sudden, sharp stab of disappointment._

"_I'm sorry-" she began, dropping her eyes, tension growing._

"_Quite alright m'lady," he interrupted waspishly. He didn't know why he felt so angry, so...hurt. "I best get back to work."_

_Sybil merely nodded, quietly leaving him to his thoughts._

_He spent the next three days avoiding her, regretting his anger, but still nursing his hurt. He wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't being unfair, but it needled at him, the way he wasn't a full person to people like her._

_He was half a name. _

_He'd nearly decided to duck out of the servant's ball, but he'd made a deal with her, and he wasn't going to let her down._

_Sybil fidgeted with the lace edge of her glove, nodding and smiling appropriately, as the conversation expected, but couldn't help her eyes from wandering to the entrance of the ballroom. _

_She hoped he'd come, even as the embarrassment over her faux pas still stung._

_The music began and soon couples were moving across the floor. Sybil watched smiling as her Granny and Mr. Carson took a turn, opening the festivities. There was a noticeable shortage of men, allowing her the chance to just watch._

"_You're not dancing?"_

_A thrill moved through her body at the sound of his voice, and slowly she turned to look at him. His hair was combed back, his faded suit ironed and, to Sybil, he looked younger and more at ease than he did in his uniform._

"_I'm afraid I've not been asked."_

_Tom nodded, but said nothing, and Sybil felt a pang of disappointment. It seemed she wasn't quite forgiven._

_Reluctantly she turned away from him, forcing her lips to stay upturned, keeping her expression light as she watched the couples finish the dance._

_A general applause spread throughout the room as the first dance of the evening ended. The strings of a waltz tinkled through the air and Sybil feared her only chance to enjoy that particular dance was gone._

"_May I have this dance, m'lady?"_

_Her eyes came up, meeting his, and she could sense the uncertainty he was trying to hide. _

"_Of course," she answered, enfolding her arm about his as he led her onto the dance floor._

_Sybil's hand slid into his as his arm wrapped around her. They maintained the proper distance, their frame strong, faces neutral, gazes diverted. But still she couldn't help but feel that they all saw, that somehow they could tell. The warmth of his bare hand on her back seeped through the gauzy material of her dress, the only barrier between his skin and hers, sending a shiver down her spine. Her cheeks tingled and she knew they were betraying her, coloring her awareness of him._

_The music started, and she felt him hesitate, the fingers of the hand that held hers tightened slightly. Sybil risked a glance, saw the ill concealed doubt in his eyes._

"_Just as we practiced," she whispered, her own fingers subtly tapping the beat for him._

_She felt him relax some, felt a pressure as he carefully pushed her back, leading her into the first step as they began to dance._

_His movements were stiff as he focused on keeping the count and moving the correct foot, and Sybil couldn't resist giving his upper arm a small squeeze, drawing his eyes from their feet to her face._

"_You're doing great...Tom."_

_The serious expression on his face gave way to a small, contented smile, and she could feel his shoulders fall, the last of his tension fading away. The music washed over them as he guided them around the floor, holding her a bit closer than he probably should, truly taking in the feeling of her._

_She'd called him Tom, and he felt whole._

_Tom decided he very much liked dancing._

**Thank you for reading!  
**

_**Coming Next Week:**_

"Sybil," Tom whispered harshly. "Sybil, love, wake up."

The heavy knocking on his door sounded again.

They'd slept late, much too late as he noted the bright light of the morning sun painting the room.

Sybil stirred beside him before flying up into sitting position, her face panicked.


	3. April 1918 Part 2

**A Hard Sacrifice**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Holy freak you guys. Thank you so much for the comments and reviews. I am still in shock over how well this story has been received. Your comments are so appreciated. My life gets pretty bogged down in other people's issues-my kids mostly ^_^ although recently it was helping an older lady move which turned out to be an all consuming nightmare...bless her heart-and it is just so wonderful to get a little message in my email that reminds me I'm more than other people's issues! So your comments mean a great deal to me. Thank you!**

**Also, while we all know Tom and Sybil are a couple of BAMF, it's important to remember they are both still rather young here, and are in a particularly sticky situation that I can't imagine either having much experience navigating so while I think it would be awesome for them to handle every situation with their awesomeness, I'm afraid that wouldn't be too realistic. Sybil especially is torn as she would lose the most. Just something to keep in mind.**

**Finally, the biggest Shirtless Tom Branson Holding a Teddy Bear for Repmet; an amazing (and patient) beta whose comments and help I have come to absolutely rely on.**

* * *

_November 1919_

_Lord Grantham paced the floor of the library, his breathing harsh as anger surged through him. _

_The reality of what he'd just witnessed choked at him, clawing at the heart of him, filling him with indignation, disbelief, and rage._

_He'd been made a fool...by the _chauffeur.

_His muscles tensed with the need to expel his emotions, and he found himself gripping the back of his chair as he stood glaring, unseeing, at his writing desk. His fingers clenched and kneaded the wood before he shoved it away from him and resumed his pacing._

_The chauffeur._

_The _Irish _chauffeur._

_No. It couldn't be true. It was mad to even consider, for it meant his daughter had..._

_with the chauffeur..._

_right under his nose! _

_A fury unlike any Lord Grantham had ever experienced washed over him, causing a throbbing in his head. It was folly! A ridiculous juvenile madness. For months he'd worked to reconcile himself to the idea that the father was some middle class soldier who would be of some embarrassment to the family, but one they could work to overcome; maybe a solicitor like Matthew, or a doctor, or perhaps someone along the lines of Richard Carlisle, a self made man, wealthy but not of their class. Hell, he'd even come to terms with him being a well-to-do farmer or a politician. _

_But not a servant. Never a servant._

_The very idea disgusted him. It was repugnant._

_He'd been driven about by the man who'd seduced his daughter; he'd put his life in his hands._

_He felt bile burn up his throat, and reached for a tumbler on the desk._

_Before he could pour himself a drink however, the door to the library opened, the sound a variable blow to his tenuous control. He had no desire to speak with anyone._

_He whirled about, prepared to demand he be left alone, only to stop short, finding himself facing the very cause of his distress. _

_"Get out, before I have you thrown out." _

_The words were cold, his jaw tight, his anger blinding him to the younger man's distress. He could only see red._

_"Papa."_

_For the first time he realized his eldest daughter had followed the chauffeur in. The carefully restrained guilt on her face was enough for him to realize he'd been made a fool by more than one daughter._

_Lord Grantham rubbed at his forehead, the pounding grew stronger. _

April 1918

Tom Branson's eyes flew open at the sound.

The pounding grew stronger, jerking him fully awake.

"Sybil," Tom whispered harshly. "Sybil, love, wake up."

The heavy knocking on his door sounded again.

They'd slept late, much too late as he noted the bright light of the morning sun painting the room.

Sybil stirred beside him before flying up into a sitting position, her face panicked, pure instinct had her clutching the blanket to her naked chest.

"Hell," Tom mumbled, throwing the covers back and searching the floor for something to put on.

"Mr. Branson!" a voice called, the sound muffled by the walls, making it impossible for him to determine who it was.

He threw Sybil's nightgown at her as he hopped about trying to pull his pants on. He tripped, hitting the ground with a hard thump, causing Sybil to whip around, her arms getting tangled in the frothy material she was trying to pull over her head.

"Tom!" she cried, her voice a harsh whisper.

He bounced to his feet, shushing her, ignoring the painful throbbing in his knee.

"Get under the bed," he said.

Sybil's eyes narrowed. "I'm not hiding under the bed."

Tom had the decency to blush when he realized the ridiculousness of his command.

"Right...uh...stand here, against the wall."

There was no door to separate the small bedroom from the equally small area that served as both a kitchen and sitting room, affording visitors an almost full view of the tiny cottage. The best she could do was hide behind the wall that divided the little home.

With a nod Sybil moved to press her body against the faded wood.

Tom stepped out of the room, preparing to open the door when Sybil saw her shoes still on the floor for anyone to see. As quickly as she could she kicked out, sending them sliding under the bed.

Tom's glance back caught the movement, his heart feeling as if if skipped a beat when he realized he'd nearly opened the door that very moment and would have given whomever stood on the other side of the door a perfect view of Sybil's leg.

With a shake of his head, and one final glance about the cottage, finding nothing amiss, realizing only too late he still wore no shirt, as he pulled open the door.

Tom felt a flash of relief as he took in the slightly surprised face of one of the hall boys whose name escaped him, Joe maybe?

"Yes?" he asked, hoping his voice hid the previous moments of panic.

The young man stuttered a bit, unsure of finding the chauffeur in such a state of undress. "Uh...I'm...I'm sorry to disturb you sir, only Mr. Carson sent me down to fetch you. Her Ladyship will be ready to go soon as he was worried you'd not brought the car around yet-"

"Of course," Tom interjected smoothly. "Please assure Mr. Carson I will be up momentarily."

"Yes sir," the boy answered, accepting his dismissal and turning to run back to the big house to deliver the message.

Tom calmly shut the door.

"Shite."

* * *

Sybil did her best to stay as still as possible, her heels and backside pushing against the wall in an effort to stay invisible. Her breathing had never sounded louder in her ears.

She cursed mentally, one of the more colorful words she'd heard among the soldiers repeating itself as she thought of how careless they'd been. In all the time they'd been married she'd never overslept. It wasn't a luxury they were allowed. Nights together were always cut short by the approaching dawn. Other than the morning after their marriage, they'd never known the laziness of a slowly waking in bed together, lounging and cuddling, languidly making love as the sun grew higher and higher.

The sound of the door opening prompted her to freeze, even to hold her breath, to still her heart if she could. Her whole life depended on the wall; the imperfect grain of a tree that had long ago been brought down.

She could hear the conversation, grateful when it was clear no one was going to be entering the cottage.

Her mind thought back to what they'd experienced last night. The care he took in healing her pain. The commitment she felt in every movement, showing him the depth of her love for him. To be so naked with each other as they struggled with the reality of war and the world around them.

The idea that their devotion to each other, so complete, would never be accepted or deemed valuable, drove them further and further into each other. An intense pleasure had flowed between them, one not wholly derived from their physical contact. Rather it pulled for the emotional, the spiritual, a moment between a couple, between two hearts completely connected, that many sought but few achieved.

Neither had been willing to let go of that feeling; bringing each other to the brink of ultimate release only to ease back, to find new ways to worship each other, until it became too much, until the weakness of the human body could no longer keep up with the strength of the human will, and they'd been unable, unwilling, to contain their cries. The completion of their dance so powerful as to change the very understanding of existence; bodies arching, clinging, panting, invincible, a glimpse of the eternal nature of love, as one.

Collapsing into each other, exhaustion staking claim, they'd fallen asleep.

The alarm clock forgotten.

Sybil's eyes closed for a moment as she thought of their recklessness, her mind battling with the strength of what they'd experienced in the dark of night, hidden from the world, with the harsh light of day that sought to invalidate all that they were.

She hated it.

The sound of the door closing brought her out of her musings, the mumbled swear she heard from her husband echoing her own sentiments.

Tom came back into the bedroom, Sybil taking in the slouch of his wide shoulders, her own eyes wide with concern.

"What are we going to do?"

Tom shook his head, even as he moved to pull his uniform from the hook on which it hung. "I don't know. I'd forgotten I'm to take your mother to see the Dowager this morning. I have to get dressed and get the car up to the house. My absence has already been noted by Mr. Carson."

"_Your _absence?" Sybil scoffed. "What are we going to do when they realize I'm not in my bedroom? If the maids haven't noticed already."

"I don't know Sybil," Tom snapped. "I…" he paused, taking a breath. "I don't know."

Sybil could shake him. "I can't get back into the house now. Perhaps we've some time if the maids simply think I'm at the hospital for an early shift, but I can't get to my uniform."

They both grew quiet as scenario after scenario played out, all ending with their secret being revealed in the worst way possible.

"Dammit," Tom swore again, his hand going through his hair. "I can't think."

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips. "Just get dressed, I'll...I'll think of something."

"Sybil-"

"Don't," she interrupted. "You're right. If you delay then they might send someone to look for you again. Get dressed."

Tom did as instructed, though she could tell by his quick, sharp movements he was angry.

"Oh don't sulk," she said, her hands firmly on her hips.

Tom paused, his eyes on the floor. His voice low. "I'm sorry." His eyes moved to hers. "I'm sorry I forgot to set the alarm."

Sybil felt some of her frustration dissipate at his words. "Oh Tom, it's not your fault."

"I should have-"

"We're in this together. Neither of us thought," Sybil interjected. "You blame yourself far too often when things get a little difficult or uncertain."

She knew why.

She knew there was still a part of him that feared she would one day regret the decision to marry him.

After the incident with General Strutt she understood why, but it wasn't fair for him to still hold that against her, or to still cling to that fear, after all this time.

"Stop acting like the servant who's displeased his Lady," she added, her tone soft but her words harsh. She ignored the way his eyebrow went up. "Now let me think."

Tom said nothing as he reached for his boots.

"Why of all days does Mama need to leave early today?" Sybil mumbled aloud, her hand rubbing at her forehead. "Although if she hadn't who knows how long we would have slept?"

She paced about the small room, her mind turning over every ridiculous idea, but always coming to the same conclusion. "There is no way for me to get back in the house without being seen."

She flopped down onto the bed, the same bed that had just the previous night been so freeing, but now reminded her just how caged they were.

She looked up to her husband, suddenly feeling too young and too unprepared.

Tom's lips were pressed tightly together, a sense of accepted failure behind his eyes. He reached out to her, the back of one long finger stroking her cheek.

"Perhaps it's time to let them see-"

He stopped suddenly, his his eyes widening some, his finger going still.

"They are going to see," he said.

"Yes," Sybil said slowly, a niggling inside her worrying over her husband's impetuous nature.

"But that's just it," he pressed. "We can't stop them from seeing, we can only manipulate _how_ they see it."

"I don't understa-"

Before she could finish her thought Tom had grabbed her hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Grab your robe, I'll get your shoes."

Sybil frowned but did as he said. He waited while she wrapped the thick material about her before handing her the shoes.

He watched her slip them on. "Wait, your hair."

Sybil glared at him, still unclear of the plan. "What about it."

"You've got to braid it or something."

Sybil grabbed her long tresses, grateful her training as a nurse had forced her to learn some practical skills, quickly folding piece over piece while Tom retrieved the bit of ribbon he'd tugged free the night before.

"Have you ever seen a magician?" he asked as she braided.

"Of course," she answered.

"It's all a trick," Tom explained. "The magician makes sure you see what _he _wants you to see, what you hope to see. People tend to see only what they expect to see."

"Yes, so?"

Tom sighed. "It's a lie, a trick. I know you don't like deceit, and if you prefer, I'll walk you back to the Abbey right now, and we can tell your family, otherwise we're going to have to lie, to trick them."

Sybil stared at him, war waging within her. She loved her family. She loved Tom. She wasn't ready to give up either. Besides, where would they go?

Tom saw her small nod of acquiesce. "Right, follow me."

The pair moved out of his cottage, mindful it was visible from the big house, doing their best to check before sneaking out and around to the backside.

"Now what?"

"You said it yourself, Lady Grantham's not normally down this early, so she doesn't know about your morning routine."

Sybil shook her head. "What morning routine?"

Tom gave her a sympathetic look.

"Sorry love."

And he pushed her to the ground.

* * *

Lady Grantham stepped out into the cool spring morning, working her fingers into the lace glove O'Brien had just handed her, and sighed heavily. The day was shaping up to be rather off putting; to begin the day with an insisted upon early morning meeting with her mother-in-law was never a good start. And now she finds no car waiting for her. Her temper grew short as she imagined Violet's ill-concealed criticism of Cora's late arrival.

"Carson, I thought the motor was coming."

The butler's face remained impassive, a consummate professional, even as his mind reeled with displeasure and embarrassment. "My deepest apologies my lady, I was told Mr. Branson was on his way up with the car."

"Well please find him quickly. I have no desire to be late," she snapped, her own ire barely contained.

"Of course my lady," Carson's deep voice soothed. "If you'd like to step into the drawing room to wait I will immed-my word!"

Cora, who had already begun heading into the house, turned at his exclamation.

"Carson?" Her eyes followed his line of sight until she herself gasped aloud.

"Sybil?" she cried, moving quickly towards the pair making their way up the drive, the elderly servant hot on her heels.

Sybil held tightly to Tom, her heart beating fast. She felt ridiculous; she felt terrified. Her mind went through what they had quickly discussed, but seeing her mother's panicked face struck at the heart of her.

Tom shifted her weight, holding her a little higher, cradling her to his chest. She could feel his own heart racing, hear his heavy breathing, feel a bit of sweat at his neck as he labored to carry her.

"Sybil, what's happened?" Lady Grantham demanded as the foursome finally met up.

"I'm alright Mama," she assured her. "Only a twisted ankle."

"A twisted ankle?" Cora parrotted. "Sybil you're in your night clothes and you're covered in dirt."

"Yes, Mama," Sybil soothed, trying to remember the story Tom had quickly given her. "I know. I'm afraid I went for my early morning walk, as I do most mornings-"

"You do?" Her mother pressed.

"Of course Mama," Sybil answered, her tone light. "I try to walk most days that I have a shift. The early morning, just as the sunrises, before the house gets too busy and hectic, gives me the strength to face the atrocities of this war."

Her heart sank at the sympathetic look on her mother's face. Shame began twisting a knife deep into her. Tom was right: her mother was seeing only what she wanted to see.

She didn't like deceit

"Of course my darling," Cora nodded, refusing to be seen as unknowledgeable in regards to her daughter's activities in front of the servants.

"Only this morning I hit a rather damp spot and slipped and seemed to have badly twisted my ankle."

"I was on my way to the garage when I found her trying to hobble her way back to the house your ladyship," Tom interjected, always surprising Sybil with how easily he fell back into the role of servant. "I do apologize for the delay in bringing the car around."

Cora waved him off. "Of course Branson, thank you."

"I'm afraid I was left sitting in the dirt for a few hours before Branson came along and found me," Sybil offered.

"Poor dear," Cora cooed. "Which ankle?"

"My left."

"The right."

Cora's eyebrows went up at the conflicting answers spoken together.

Tom was the first to recover, offering a small chuckle. "I'm sorry your ladyship, my right is her left, of course."

Cora nodded, easily accepting the explanation.

"And please forgive my familiarity m'lady, but I did check the ankle, and seems to be a bit swollen but not broken."

Carson glared at him, while Cora's eyes moved to where her daughter's feet poked out from under the nightdress. "Oh, it is rather swollen," Cora decided, surprising Sybil who knew for a fact her ankle was fine. "Carson, you must send for Dr. Clarkson at once."

"No Mama," Sybil insisted. "Dr. Clarkson is much too busy with men who really need medical attention. My ankle is not an emergency. I can manage without bothering the doctor; I am a nurse after all."

Cora looked as if she was going to argue, but seeming to decide against it merely nodded. "Very well. Do you believe you can lean against me to get you upstairs?"

Sybil nodded, wiggling away from Tom.

She let out a dramatic hiss as he set her down, causing everyone to freeze.

"Perhaps not," she concluded, feeling Tom's eyes on her, his eyebrow going up.

"Don't try my dear," Cora insisted. "Branson will carry you up."

"Of course your ladyship," he nodded, carefully ignoring the smug smile his wife threw him.

He again took her weight fully into his arms, knowing he was now being punished for having shoved her down, despite having done it gently.

He followed the older pair towards the house, trying to maintain even breaths as he worked to keep from dropping Sybil.

He felt her fingers dig into him, felt her breath warm on his neck as she subtly whispered, "I don't like this at all."

Tom understood.

He didn't like it either. They'd outgrown this.

Now two things were very clear to him: they really needed to start planning and preparing for the day their marriage was revealed, and they would have to do all that they could to control that revelation.

He didn't think he could live through another moment like this.

* * *

**T****hank you for reading!**

_**Coming up next week:**_

"Sybil, you are being naive," Cora accused. "What would your Granny say if she heard you talk like that?"

_'Probably a great deal less than when she hears I've already married the chauffeur,'_ Sybil thought feeling suddenly weepy.

"Of course you can marry for love as long as it's a gentleman of mine and your father's choosing," Cora continued, blind to her daughter's growing discomfort.

The youngest Crawley felt her blood boil, her emotions flying from sadness to anger. Her life was forever to be controlled. "Well, please make my apologies to the Grey family. I have to be at the hospital tonight, and I refuse to ask another nurse to cover for me again. I do have responsibilities. I've been tired lately and I would like an early night…" she trailed off, the rest of her angry retort dying on her lips.

"Sybil?" Cora pressed, concerned.

Sybil shook her head slightly. "I would like an early night following my shift so please don't expect me to make an appearance in the drawing room for cards."

She ignored her mother's frustrated huff, her busy mind drowning out the pleading and petitioning. Sybil couldn't focus as her breath came in fast bursts.

She _had_ been tired recently. She _had_ been emotionally volatile recently.

Surely she wasn't…


	4. May 1918 Part 1

**A Hard Sacrifice**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: You people just have no idea what you mean to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review. I've never had a story that I've updated weekly before, with good reason, it can prove very difficult to find the time to write when adequate free-time to write is such a hot (and rare) commodity for me. I can do almost anything with the kids around, except write. I just can't concentrate well enough, so finding time when they aren't needing me usually means after they've gone to bed, which usually means I'm falling asleep with my laptop still in my lap ^_^ But you people push me to make the time, which feels so good! It feels so good to create and accomplish goals. So a million thank yous!**

**And a million and one to Repmet for her phenomenal beta'ing skills and support.**

**Oh, and as some of you know, this story started with a few drabble on Tumblr, so if you recognize parts of this chapter it's because I am integrating some of those drabbles into the story.**

* * *

May 1918

She could feel her hold on her frustration beginning to slip.

It had been a trying morning. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Ripon with her mother began to feel like and unending exercise of deflection and appeasement. It didn't help that Sybil had felt off the last few days, waking with a queasy feeling and a mild throbbing in her head.

And to make matters worse she'd barely been able to see Tom. Following the twisted ankle debacle Sybil had been forced to spend the day in bed, followed by two days of limping around feeling useless until finally, on the third day, she declared herself completely healed, only able to maintain the ruse for so long.

She'd begun to worry that perhaps she'd grown too accustomed to pretending.

She'd worked extra long hours to make up for the time she missed, and perhaps in a small way, in a moment when she was willing to really examine her feelings, even to punish herself for her deceit. Either way it meant she'd not had much time for sneaking off, nor the energy.

The close brush with her secret being revealed had reminded her that there would come a time when perhaps her family would not know her, so she'd been trying to make an effort to spend more time with her family as well.

She vacillated between being sad and heartbroken over the idea to angry and rebellious.

"Sybil dear," Cora whined. "You really must make an effort to be at dinner tonight."

The youngest Crawley suppressed a sighed, she knew that tone of voice, she knew what her mother was going to say because it was the same thing every time. Instead she focused on returning Tom's tight squeeze of her hand as he helped her into the car.

She'd seen him fully naked, felt him move within her, was intimately familiar with the sensation of his mouth on her breast, but still she got a thrill at the touch of his hand on hers; especially when it was contact made in full daylight in front of the whole world. It was a moment of connection that no one judged or despised, in fact it was expected, and she delighted in those small moments.

Tom carefully kept his head down, but she knew, she could see the corners of his lips go up slightly. He was thinking the same things she was.

But they had to pretend…at least for a little while longer.

"Really Mama," Sybil answered once they had settled into their seat, watching as Tom moved around the car to turn the crank. "I was at dinner last night and the night before. I don't think Dr. Clarkson would appreciate having to rearrange the schedule tonight just so I can eat dinner with the family again."

"But it's not just the family," Cora clarified with a smile. "Young Larry's been called up. He'll be reporting in the next two weeks and Lord Merton mentioned how much Larry would appreciate seeing you again before he leaves."

A loud bang followed by a muffled swear came from the front of the car. The chauffeur's head popped up sheepishly. "Sorry, m'lady…my hand slipped," Tom explained, awkwardly raising his hand as proof.

Sybil fought to keep her face neutral, but couldn't stop her eyes from immediately connecting with his.

Cora gave him a vague sort of nod and a small, understanding smile before completely forgetting about him and turning her attention back to her youngest.

"Mama," Sybil warned, feeling rather uncomfortable at the topic being discussed, particularly as

her husband climbed into the driver's seat and could hear every word.

"Don't take that tone with me," Cora began. "I haven't stopped you from your work, despite my misgivings and fears. I allowed you to go to York, to become a nurse and work in the hospital. I'm proud of what you've achieved."

Sybil saw Tom straighten in his seat, as her own heart swelled.

"Truly?" she asked her mother, wincing at how eager she sounded. She so longed for her family's approval of her choices, for their acceptance and love, knowing a day would come soon when those desires would be far out of reach.

"Of course dear," Cora answered softly. "But no one knows how long this war is going to carry on for. We must start thinking about your future. There's no reason why we should continue to delay in finding you girls husbands."

Sybil's eyes moved more slowly this time, more surreptitiously, watching her husband fiddle uselessly with a nob, pretending to not be listening as he stalled to hear her answer.

"Oh, Mama, you can't just drive about like some kind of chauffeur, picking up husbands off the side of the road," she laughed. "It doesn't work like that way any more. Women can let love be the driving force behind their choice for a husband."

This time she couldn't help the smile spread across her lips as she saw Tom hesitate slightly before reaching down and slipping the car into gear, imagining the smirk she knew he now bore.

"Sybil, you are being naive," Cora accused. "What would your Granny say if she heard you talk like that?"

_'Probably a great deal less than when she hears I've already married the chauffeur,'_ Sybil thought feeling suddenly weepy.

"Of course you can marry for love as long as it's a gentleman of mine and your father's choosing," Cora continued, blind to her daughter's growing discomfort.

Sybil felt her blood boil, her emotions flying from sadness to anger. Her life was forever to be controlled. "Well, please make my apologies to the Grey family. I have to be at the hospital tonight, and I refuse to ask another nurse to cover for me again. I do have responsibilities. I've been tired lately and I would like an early night…" she trailed off, the rest of her angry retort dying on her lips.

"Sybil?" Cora pressed, concerned.

Sybil shook her head slightly. "I would like an early night following my shift so please don't expect me to make an appearance in the drawing room for cards."

She ignored her mother's frustrated huff, her busy mind drowning out the pleading and petitioning. Sybil couldn't focus as her breath came in fast bursts.

She _had_ been tired recently. She _had_ been emotionally volatile recently. She _had _been feeling unwell.

Surely she wasn't…

She hoped she wasn't about to have a much bigger problem on her hands than Larry Grey.

_May 1916_

"_It's not your problem, Sybil," Mary insisted, growing impatient with her sister's sudden obsession over the topic. "The whole thing is over; England's won. The rebels should be punished."_

_"Damned disgraceful if you ask me," Lord Grantham interjected, folding his paper and reaching for his coffee. "Trying to take advantage of the fact that we're at war. We've now had to divert men to deal with these rebels; men who could be fighting Germans."_

_Sybil pressed her lips together. She knew her father's frustration at not being called up. She shared in his sense of uselessness. "But surely prison is a heavy enough punishment. Isn't there enough killing going on?"_

_Lord Grantham offered his youngest a tender smile. "Dear sweet Sybil, don't ever change."_

_Sybil smiled back, though the platitude made it no further than her lips. He was treating her like child; patting her on the head for being adorable. Perhaps it was naive to believe death wasn't the only option for a traitor to the crown, but it seemed to Sybil that martyrs were the hardest to defeat, and if such an argument could save the lives of the Irishmen _and_ appease the crown, why shouldn't she speak? Yet this observation would go unspoken, her opinions of little matter as it was clear her father had already moved on._

_"Carson, please tell Branson that my meeting has been moved to 11:00 so I won't be needing the car until after luncheon."_

_"Very good my lord." The butler nodded._

_"Oh, I can tell him," Sybil interjected. _

_Her father raised an eyebrow in question. _

_"The weather is very fine today; I was planning a long walk. It would be no bother to stop by the garage," she supplied happily, careful to keep her tone light, playful, acting the role her father preferred her in._

_Her father nodded, turning his attention back to the newspaper._

_Sybil sipped her tea, avoiding Mary's gaze._

_"I thought you said you were going to spend the morning writing letters," her eldest sister whispered._

_Sybil shrugged. "That's when I thought it was going to rain."_

_Mary's brow furrowed as she glanced outside, taking in the blue, cloudless sky...the same blue, cloudless sky that had been bright all morning._

"_Excuse me," Sybil mumbled, pushing from the table, nodding at Carson as he opened the door for her._

_She moved lazily out into the sunshine, ensuring she didn't look to eager, meandering towards the garage. She wanted to talk to him; had come to crave that interaction. She'd never been able to speak to another person the way she could with him. The way he listened with his whole body, so eager to hear what she had to say, ready to challenge rather than appease, she'd never felt so alive. _

_The gravel crunched under her feet, causing Tom's head to pop up from where it had bent over the front of the motor._

_Sybil smiled at him, a reaction she couldn't control these days, but faltered as his customary grin didn't appear._

_He nodded. "M'lady."_

"_Branson?" Sybil glanced around, concerned perhaps they weren't alone. Finding no one within ear or eyesight she tried again a bit softer, "Tom?"_

_He shook his head, his jaw tight._

"_What's wrong?" she pressed, moving around towards him._

_The chauffeur stepped back. "What can I do for you, Lady Sybil?"_

_A frown marred her smooth skin. "Papa...his meeting was rescheduled and he won't be needing the motor until after luncheon."_

_Again he nodded, grabbing his rag, wiping his hands clean, just before turning and walking back into the garage._

_Sybil stood speechless, watching him go, feeling a sickness deep within, feeling his rejection. She didn't know how to respond. It wasn't often people were walking away from her, the dismissal clear._

_She didn't know what had happened, what she had done._

_Slowly she began to move away, unsure exactly what to do. She'd taken several steps before she realized, before it made sense, and when it did she chastised herself for her short-sightedness._

_Quickly she turned, her dress flapping about her legs like a flag in the wind as she made her way back to the garage, pushing through the door, unsurprised to find him standing, staring, heartbroken._

"_Tom, I'm so sorry. I-"_

"_Leave it," he snapped, the first sign of emotion._

_Sybil looked away, unused to such confrontation. But it wasn't in her nature to turn away from a friend, especially a friend in need._

_The silence stretched between them as she tried to find the words, until she settled on one._

_Carefully she stepped towards him, trying to close some of the distance between them. _

"_Please."_

_Tom stiffened, his breathing growing heavy. She watched his fist clench and unclench and clench again._

"_It's of little consequence," he finally said, throwing the rag on the workbench. _

"_That's not true."_

"_Isn't it?" he pressed, the anger on his face chilling her. "Six days, Sybil. Six bloody days. That's all it took to crush dreams of freedom. And now what? These men are being executed by a firing squad. Labeled traitors, sentenced to die because they wanted to be Irish, to be rid of England."_

"_I understand you're upset," Sybil began, wanting to help him._

"_You don't get it! You can't get it!" he cried, furious. "Your lot has kept my country oppressed for generations. You've starved us, abused us, tried to destroy our culture, even our language. What can you understand about that? Your world is tea parties, fine clothes, servants to dress you, pamper you, bow and curtsey to you. I'm not meant to even call you by your name. I'm sick of it. If I had been in Ireland I would have been lined up with them; shot with them."_

_Sybil winced. "Please don't say that."_

_Tom scoffed. "The English way: don't discuss something that is painful or difficult."_

_Sybil's lips pressed together, her cheeks pink under his assault. "That's not fair."_

_His sardonic laugh assaulted her ears. "Fair? How can you use that word with me? I hate to break it to you Lady Sybil, but very little in the world is fair."_

"_Don't talk to me as if I were a child," she shot back. "I can make no apologies for my birth, just as you can't for yours. I don't pretend to know what life is like for you, but I'm trying. If change is going to happen it has to be on both sides and I'm trying."_

_His shoulders fell, his fair hair falling forward as his head hung. _

"_They've shot them all," he whispered hopelessly. "The bastards lined them up and shot them. And now...now they've killed my cousin, just shot him as he was walking along, because they said he was 'probably' a rebel. Shot him like a dog in the street. "_

_She heard his voice catch, could sense his devastation, his torment. Without thought she reached out, her fingers gripping the material of his jumpsuit. _

_His red eyes met hers, her own heart breaking at the pain she saw there. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer. She could smell petrol, feel the warmth of skin under her fingers, kept her gaze locked with his as she brought her other hand to cup his cheek. _

_It had meant to be a friendly gesture, a simple sign of comfort, but things had never been simple between them. She found herself moving into his arms, arms that began to wrap around her, loosely holding her to him. Her own breathing changed, her heart racing. She'd never been held this intimately before, never felt this desire before._

"_Sybil," he said simply, his eyes wide, taking her in as his own hand mirrored hers, coming to rest against her face._

_Her eyes closed briefly, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through her as his thumb gently stroked her rounded cheek._

_When again her blue eyes met his she finally saw him raw, saw the depth of his sorrow. She'd never comforted a man physically but instinct had her rising on her toes, her arms wrapping about his neck, pressing her body tightly against his._

_She could tell she'd surprised him, his body going rigid, but soon she felt his answer as his own arms wound about her, just as tight, just as desperate. He buried his face in her neck, sending shivers through her body at the heat of his breath against her skin._

_She jumped, startled by the first sob that escaped him, then immediately tightened her hold, refusing to let him fall. She didn't know what she was saying, just using the cadence of her voice to try and soothe him as he dealt with his loss and grief. _

_Her heart ached, a desire to protect him, to take away his pain, even if it meant taking it upon herself, washed through her. Sybil realized in that moment, her giddy excitement to see him, her longing to speak with him, to learn everything about him, was merely attraction. She'd felt that way before, a few young men in her acquaintance having elicited similar feelings. _

_But this?_

_Holding him at his weakest, most vulnerable, an impulse to consume him, pull him into her to give him her strength, her comfort, was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. _

_Was this love?_

_Her eyes filled with tears, allowing herself to be as exposed as he was, because she knew. She knew it was. She loved the man she cradled against her body. She loved him fiercely, tenderly, completely; a realization that left her a new woman. She would not give him up-no matter the cost.  
_

_With renewed vigor her hold on him tightened, hoping her arms were strong enough to see him through this darkness, and any darkness they may one day have to face._

* * *

**Thanks for reading!  
**

_**Coming up next week:**_

Pregnant. She was pregnant.

Sybil bit her lip, her heart dropping at the revelation.

Ethel, the former housemaid, was pregnant.

How different they're lives were, yet how similar. She rubbed her forehead, her frustration building. It all seemed so stupid, all the nonsense of class and station, when it all came down to certain, inalienable truths; women have babies. Whether a farmer makes love to a duchess, or a lord makes love to a maid, babies are made the same. Yet women are punished for it.

Her stomach rolled violently. She was going to be sick again.


	5. May 1918 Part 2

**A Hard Sacrifice**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you ever so much for the continued support! As a heads up, I ran out of time this week so I wasn't able to get this to Repmet so it's unbeta'd. I didn't want to miss posting today, but I did try to catch as much as I could though. Sorry about that! But still a huge thanks to Rep for her patience with me!**

**Two points:**

**1) This is where the timeline on the show gets wonky. Episode four starts out in 1918, presumably early 1918, I used March as suggested by scarletcourt. Then episode five starts out at the beginning with the battle of Amiens which began in August 1918. Episode four ends with Ethel telling Mrs. Hughes she's pregnant, then in episode five (approximately 5-6 months later) she's holding what appears to be a four month old; even for a "TV" baby that's a bit much. I also don't think Ethel was "hiding" her pregnancy, since she came back to Downton to tell Mrs. Hughes, and I think if she knew before that she would have spoken out. The months just don't add up. (Seriously, Fellowes, dude you could try _a little_ harder to make your timeline make sense!) SO, this will be where the timeline in the story will diverge from the show. I am putting Ethel at three months in March of 1918.**

**2) In the show Isobel leaves for France and would be gone for a good portion of Sybil's pregnancy—which falls between episodes four and five—and that makes me sad because I love writing for Isobel's character. So in this AU she never leaves for France.**

* * *

May 1918

"Nurse Crawley?"

Sybil's head came up, a bright smile so expertly painted on her face no one would believe it to be forced. She had been well instructed in the art of careful control. Her granny had scolded her for laughing too loudly the first time Sybil had been allowed to join the family at dinner. Her mother had gently reminded her to maintain an air of mystery her first season, pointing out that Sybil's face gave too much away.

"My dear, an actress on the stage can employ such pantomime to express herself, but a lady would never resort to such theatrics."

The Dowager's words had confused a younger Sybil, but the tone left little to the imagination.

"Yes?" Sybil answered her coworker, her voice crisp and light, giving no indication of the pounding behind her eyes, the headache plaguing her since she'd awoken that morning.

It had been three days since she'd first suspected.

Three days of her stomach feeling knotted, her sleep erratic, her body exhausted and now her head aching, the implications of a baby growing stronger with each dawn.

"Mrs. Crawley was asking for you."

Sybil once again smiled. "Thank you. Would you mind-"

"Of course not," her fellow nurse interjected, taking the bandages from Sybil so she could step in and finish wrapping the soldier's arm.

The transition was made easily, and soon Sybil was walking towards the office her cousin used. For a moment, a breath of time, she felt the desire to tell someone. The impulse sending a wave of heat through her as she pictured the chance to relieve some of the pressure, some of the isolation.

She was a nurse, but what did she know about pregnancy? Tom would know even less.

Cousin Isobel would know.

It would be so easy, to just say the words, to get them out. She wasn't even sure if her symptoms were due to a baby or to the fact that the fear and uncertainty of the possibility of a baby were poisoning her.

If only she'd been able to see Tom; something more significant than the drive to the hospital, more than the back of his head and squeeze to her hand when he helped her in and out.

She'd done nothing wrong. She'd fallen in love with a wonderful man. She'd married him. If she were pregnant, then she'd done nothing millions of women before her had done: created new life.

A new life in an old world.

Sybil stood outside the door, her heart pounding, her stomach sinking as some of the hope of being able to speak slipped away. She knew her cousin would help her, but she couldn't guarantee, nor expect, Isobel to keep their secret.

How could she be a mother, when in that moment she wanted nothing more than to be held by hers?

Swallowing hard and smoothing the apron of her uniform, Sybil wrestled her chaos down, raising a steady hand, wrapping her knuckles firmly against the hard wood of the door.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked, having received the affirmation to enter.

"Sybil, yes, please shut the door and have a seat."

Isobel smiled easily, her open face free of the restraints so often associated with the upper class.

Sybil envied her.

"Now, I have a matter of some…delicacy to discuss with you," Isobel began once Sybil had sat down. "I hesitate to broach the topic with you, keeping in mind your mother's proclivity to keep you from being exposed to too much of the world, but I feel a young woman in your position, who's showed a great deal of courage and fortitude, and seen some of the worse men can do to each other, can handle such realities."

Sybil frowned slightly, unsure of what her cousin was saying, but grateful for her words.

Isobel took in her confusion with a nod. "You see Nurse Crawley the world doesn't stop for the war. Dr. Clarkson has his hands full of wounded soldiers both here at the hospital and at Downton, yet the locals still suffer every day maladies that need addressing; a broken arm, a sick child, a pregnant mother."

Sybil couldn't help her eyes coming up, her breathing stilled.

"Dr. Clarkson does what he can, but for cases that do not perhaps require all of his expertise I've assumed responsibility, and it's the later aliment I wish to discuss with you."

Forcing air into her lungs, Sybil slowly asked, "Whatever do you mean?"

She gave a small wince as her voice cracked, certain such a sound reverberated.

"Are you familiar with a former maid at Downton, Ethel Parks?"

Sybil blinked at the unexpected question. "I…I, yes, I suppose I am."

"Very good, I was hoping you would remember her. This matter requires a level of discretion that quite honestly I'm not sure any of the other nurses could maintain. Ethel is pregnant and will be coming to the hospital at 3:00."

The words buzzed about Sybil, making it difficult to distinguish her thoughts. "To have the baby?"

Isobel frowned. "Oh no my dear, she's not that far gone yet. No, this is just an examination to ensure things are going well."

"I…I didn't know she was married."

It was the raised eyebrow and the quick glance out the window that told Sybil all she was meant to pick up on earlier.

"Forgive me, that was…that is none of my concern," she scrambled, trying to regain her firm hold. "Of course, how can I help?"

The older woman smiled proudly. "That's the spirit. I knew I could depend on you."

Isobel stood. "Now, she should be arriving in the next 10 minutes. Please wait outside for her and bring her to my office. We'll perform the exam here to allow for as much privacy as possible. As you can imagine the fewer who know what is going on, the better for Ethel."

Sybil also stood, a flood of questions trying to drown out rational thought and propriety. But she held her tongue, followed instructions and headed outside to wait for Ethel.

Pregnant. She was pregnant.

Sybil bit her lip, her heart dropping at the revelation.

Ethel, the former housemaid, was pregnant.

How different they're lives were, yet how similar. She rubbed her forehead, her frustration building. It all seemed so stupid, all the nonsense of class and station, when it all came down to certain, inalienable truths; women have babies. Whether a farmer makes love to a duchess, or a lord makes love to a maid, babies are made the same. Yet women are punished for it.

Her stomach rolled violently. She was going to be sick again.

Thoughtlessly her hand came to rest against her abdomen, a ridiculous notion that somehow it would calm the nausea. Yet her mind raged; was there a baby just under where her hand rested.

Discretion, secrecy, the shame of it all; she'd been naive. She understood that now. Even if she wasn't pregnant, she knew she wouldn't be able to go back to careless ease of the last year.

Her mind continued to worry her, unable to allow her a moment to enjoy the warmth of the day, the fresh aroma of flowers free of the sterile smells of the hospital, until, squinting in the sunlight, she saw a lone figure walking up the lane.

As the figure grew closer Sybil noted how impossible it was to distinguish her condition. Realizing she knew nothing beyond the fact that Ethel was pregnant, Sybil was left to assume she was fairly early on.

She watched the former maid slow, knowing she'd been seen, her steps growing wary.

Sybil wasn't ignorant. She knew the intimidation her title could emit, especially to someone who used to light her morning fires and change her linens.

It was the reminder she needed, to forget about her own situation and focus on the patient. She was a nurse after all.

"Ethel?"

The redhead nodded, her eyes big. "Yes, m'lady."

"Nurse Crawley, please," she offered, a bright smiling mask firmly in place. She had proudly accepted the praise from the head nurse at the school in York, that her bedside manner was excellent, and knew she would do all that she could to help Ethel feel at ease. "Would you follow me please?"

"M'lady…I…"

Sybil saw the panic behind her eyes, the cold hand of desperation and guilt, the strangling of loneliness and burden of responsibility.

Gently she reached out a hand, bringing it to rest against the arm of the shabby coat Ethel wore. "It's alright. We're going to take care of you."

"With respect m'lady, I'm afraid very little will be alright ever again," Ethel mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the contact. "But I thank you for your kindness."

Sybil didn't know how to respond to that, so she simply said, "This way please." Then led Ethel to Isobel's office.

The exam went well, though Sybil had been surprised to learn Ethel was nearly 6 months gone.

She must have been unable to contain her reaction because Ethel had explained, "I've got to hide it. I've only washer work as it is. When people learn of the baby they'll fire me for sure."

Isobel had cautioned over binding her stomach too tightly, of the dangers it posed to the baby. Sybil had known many women still wore corsets throughout the course of their pregnancy and she wondered at the safety of that.

Once Isobel had finished her questions and the physical examination, she had declared Ethel in good health, and feeling no need to involve Dr. Clarkson, advised the pregnant woman to come back in two months time as long as she continued to feel well.

As Ethel pulled her coat back on she said, "I've no money for the bus home."

The blatant request hit Sybil, an uncomfortable silence stretched.

Isobel recovered first. "Wait here a moment, I'll return shortly."

As the door closed Sybil felt the tension in the room.

"I don't like begging," Ethel said suddenly, her voice tight. "It makes me feel…" her voice trailed off. "I suppose it doesn't matter how it makes me feel. I broke the rules didn't I? This is my punishment; my utter humiliation."

There was nothing Sybil could say that wouldn't sound stupid or privileged.

It was in that moment Lady Sybil Branson decided she wasn't going to be beaten.

Isobel soon returned with some coins and a sandwich, gratefully accepted by the mother-to-be before she left.

"Such a shame," Isobel had said quietly, before turning to Sybil. "Now, I believe your shift is over at 6 correct?"

Sybil nodded.

"Good, I'll ride back up with you to the big house."

She left the office, resumed her work, acted as if the world wasn't shifting drastically beneath her.

She wasn't going to wind up like Ethel. _They_ weren't going to be begging for help. She and Tom were a family. She wasn't alone, she wasn't abandoned.

She would find a way to get word to him. She couldn't let another day go by without seeing him, talking with him, touching him.

For one more night she would allow them to pretend; one more night of playfulness and ease.

Then she would tell him.

* * *

Tom could kick himself. His fingers had graced over the paper's edge as he'd fiddled with his pocket, surprising him, bewildering him as he pulled it out in front of everyone. Once he'd realized it wasn't something he had stuck in there he'd known immediately who was responsible.

His wife.

Tom didn't think the finest actor in all of Covent Gardens would have been able to hide the smile such a realization prompted. He, a man known for wearing his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face, had no chance. His fingers felt the smooth glide of the small scrap of paper as he unfolded it. Her quick writing messy:

_Meet tonight. Not the usual place. Meet me where you first told me about your dreams. I have a rather naughty idea._

"What's that?" the round clipped tones of the Countess' maid demanded, startling him. She'd caught the perplexed look on his face, the confusion, followed by the silly, delighted grin and sniffed a bit of gossip. O'Brien wasn't one to let things go easily.

He'd been so stupid, so careless.

He stuffed the paper back into his pocket, trying to keep his movement slow and deliberate, fighting the urge to shove it away quickly in a flash of guilt while doing his best to disrupt the images playing through his mind that had been prompted by her use of the word 'naughty'. Their wedding night had opened her world to the pleasures of sensual contact, and his to the power of love and lust combined. It had been too difficult recently to find that time together, and he missed her.

He smiled easily at the intrusive maid. "Nothin'." he answered lazily. "Just a list of chores to get done."

"Well I wished a bit of darning and washing brought a smile like that to my lips," O'Brien scoffed, making it clear she didn't believe him. "Looks more like the cat that got into the cream."

"Thank you for your mumblings O'Brien," Carson boomed from the end of the table, signaling an end to her interrogation. "Mr. Branson owes you no explanation."

"Excuse me," the older woman answered, her words dripping with indignation and Tom, despite his surroundings, again allowed a small smile to escape.

"And you can get back to work Mr. Branson," Carson declared firmly, one bushy eyebrow raised critically. It was clear he too hadn't fallen for the chauffeur's feeble answer.

"Yes Mr. Carson," Tom intoned, pushing back from the table. "I'll head down and pick up her ladyship for dinner."

The butler nodded absently, before turning back to his tea.

Tom scurried from the room, missing the frown and weary eye that followed him.

O'Brien was a meddler. Her own life had taken her to places she'd never wished to be, imprisoning her, her choices her warden, and so she'd found ways to distract herself and take her focus off her own miserable life.

"I was just concerned Mr. Carson," she explained once the Irishman had left.

The old Butler looked up at her skeptically. "And pray, Miss O'Brien, what has you so afflicted with compassion?"

Ignoring Carson's snide implications, O'Brien continued. "Not very much puts a smile like that on a man's face, and definitely no laundry list."

"How would you know what puts a smile like that on man's face?" Thomas accused from the other side of the table.

"Thank you Corporal Barrow," Carson snapped, feeling decidedly uncomfortable with the line of conversation.

O'Brien threw Thomas a cold look before turning back to the butler. "I'm just hoping Mr. Branson isn't getting up to no good with one of the house maids is all. It would be inappropriate and I know his Lordship wouldn't be pleased."

"Yes, thank you O'Brien. Your concern is noted," Carson said, making it clear the matter was at an end.

Charles Carson was a man of control. He liked order and boundaries. He expected those who had earned the privilege of employ at Downton Abbey to maintain a certain sense of decorum. O'Brien's words had planted a seed of doubt in his mind concerning the young, attractive chauffeur. He had no desire to lose the man, when able bodied men were so hard to come by these days, but he would not stand for an inappropriate relationship. He made a mental note to pay close attention to Branson, and to ask Mrs. Hughes to keep an eye on her maids.

Tom, unaware of the discourse carrying on regarding his love life, grinned excitedly as he made his way to the garage, to the Renault.

_Meet me where you first told me about your dreams._

He'd been driving her home from Ripon, her precious smile greeting him as he'd glanced over his shoulder at her.

_"I won't always be a chauffeur," he said._

_"I think you should go into politics," she declared. "It's a fine ambition."_

_"Ambition or dream?" he scoffed_

The memory washed over him, reinforcing his love for the woman who believed in him long before he believed in himself. His thoughts grew wicked as he imagined what ideas his darling wife had in mind for them and the motor. The wait that evening was going to be interminable.

And it was.

Long after he'd driven old Lady Grantham back home, long after the house had grown dark and quiet, Tom sat tinkering away in the garage, still waiting. He'd not bothered changing, and tugged the buttons out of their holes at the top of his shirt, having long ago lost the neck tie.

He was just about ready to call it a night, believing she wasn't coming, held up by those in the house, unable to sneak away. It was always a possibility, which had led to a few frustrating nights for him and her. But a sound at the door caught his attention and a blur of white slipped through the darkness towards him.

Light from the single lamp he still had burning finally reached her face, illuminating her blue eyes and pink cheeks. Tom was struck again by how it felt, to be with her, the way it made breathing a little easier, his shoulders feel a little stronger, as if she had the power to turn him into something more than just a man.

Sybil smiled up at him before rushing to him.

He caught her easily, wrapping her tightly against him, the fabric of her nightdress dancing about them.

"I didn't think you were going to be able to come," he confessed into her hair suddenly noting how cold she felt.

"My love you're shivering," he cried, pulling back to look at her.

"As I was coming outside one of the soldiers stepped out to smoke," she began as Tom wrapped her up in his chauffeur's jacket, running his hands ups and down her body, trying to warm her. "He very nearly saw me. I had to hide behind the crates outside the kitchen. Another soldier soon joined him and I just had to wait while they talked and smoked."

Tom winced; thinking of her against the cold ground as the night's chill seeped through her thin clothing and into her skin.

"I did contemplate just returning to my room and burying myself under the covers, but then I thought you would have a much more…enjoyable way of warming me up," her voice had grown quiet, for his ears only, seducing him. "And I've missed you quite dreadfully."

Tom's breathing became harsh as she pressed herself suggestively against him.

"_My__ bed_ is quite warm," he suggested, curious to know why they weren't in their usual place.

Sybil groaned. "I can't stay. I have an early shift tomorrow and I know if I get into your bed I'll not want to leave in the morning."

Tom felt disappointment grip him. She was his wife, he her husband. They should be able to sleep in the same bed and not worry about her having to sneak off before the sun arose. But he was careful to keep his frustration hidden. This was the way it had to be for now.

"So what did you have in mind m'lady?"

Sybil's face brightened, her eyes half-closing as her lips pouted. She was playful tonight, sultry, and Tom felt his body harden as she silently tugged him to the automobile, still wearing his uniform coat.

She flung open the door, her eyes glancing to the back seat suggestively, before she offered her hand to him.

He placed his hand in hers and with a surprised laugh felt himself dragged into the back as she eagerly scrambled in. They landed rather unceremoniously onto the floor of the powerful machine. Her own laughter joined his as she shifted and rolled, pinning him to floor, straddling his body, her nightdress bunched high around her hips giving him a good look at her knees which glowed white in the darkness. He couldn't keep his hands from reaching out and touching the soft skin, playfully squeezing her knees, then her thighs, then her hips.

Suddenly he felt his arms ripped from her then pressed firmly to the floor above his head. Sybil bowed over him, her long hair falling against his face, the rounded tops of her breasts peeking out as her nightgown fell open towards him.

Tom grinned wolfishly. This was the most aggressive she'd been with him. He was unsure what had prompted this, but was hardly interested in questioning it.

She leaned forward further, her lips finding his, devouring and demanding even as she ground against him. Tom's hips thrust up to her, seeking her, and she pulled back quickly.

"I'm driving tonight Branson," she commanded, sitting back again, pressing tightly against him, forcing his hips still. "But I'm not a very accomplished driver so you mustn't do anything to break my concentration."

Tom had to fight the moan that came from deep inside when she circled her own hips against him.

"Shall I give you a few pointers m'lady?" he ground out, playing along as well as his befuddled mind could.

"Of course Branson," she smiled sweetly, as if she wasn't riding him desperately close to completion. "Any advice is greatly welcomed."

Tom's eyes closed as pleasure raced through him. "It's all…in the handling…of the stick m'lady."

Sybil's laughter rang out and she proved to Tom that she was a quick study and soon the car was moaning and rocking along with them.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! And I promise to get this chapter done in time so it can be beta'd. Hopefully the mistakes weren't too glaring.**

_**Coming up next week:**_

He didn't care what it would cost him. He could see her leaving, leaving him. Desperation was a powerful motivator. He remember the feeling on her in his arms, the way her lips caressed his. It couldn't be so meaningless to her; not when it moved his entire world.

He was going to do it.

He was going to ask her to marry him.


End file.
